Page 18 of Saint's Preciosa
"You blew up a building," I say, one last attempt at reason. "You threatened to kill Popov. You're in a gang?—"
"Club," he corrects.
"Whatever!" My voice rises in frustration. Sirens nearby remind me we're standing not far from a crime scene.
Saint's lips curve into a smile that's equal parts savage and seduction. "I never claimed to be safe, preciosa. But I will keepyousafe. There's a difference."
Before I can respond, he closes the distance between us, his mouth capturing mine in a kiss that steals the breath from my lungs. Unlike our first kiss outside the veterinary clinic—tentative, exploring—this one demands surrender from the start.
His lips are firm, insistent, the scruff on his jaw against my skin is a delicious contrast to the softness of his mouth. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, seeking entry, and I open to him with a soft moan that should embarrass me but somehow doesn't.
"Saint," I breathe against his mouth, my hands moving from pushing him away to clutching his shoulders, pulling him closer.
One of his hands tangles in my hair, carefully freeing it from its practical braid until it falls loose around my shoulders. His other arm wraps around my waist, pulling me flush against his solid body. The heat of him radiates through my clothes, warming my skin, my bones, and places inside me I didn't know could feel such heat.
He backs me fully against the brick wall, his body caging mine. The contrast between the cold, rough brick at my back and his warmth at my front sends shivers down my spine. His kiss is consuming, devouring, claiming.
When he finally breaks the kiss, we're both breathing hard, our exhales creating small clouds that mingle in the cool night air. His forehead rests against mine, his eyes smoldering with a hunger that makes my knees wobble.
"Tell me to stop," he whispers hoarsely. "If you don't want this, tell me now, and I'll back off."
His meaning is clear—he's offering me an exit. All I have to do is say the word.
But I don't want to stop. God help me, I want this man with an intensity that surprises me. Not just the physical contact, but this feeling of being wanted, valued, seen.
"I don't want you to stop," I whisper, the admission both terrifying and freeing. "I want...I want..."
Instead of finishing with words, I rise on tiptoes and press my lips to his again, letting my body speak for me. This time the kiss is gentler but no less heated, my surrender explicit in every brush of my lips against his.
His groan is primal, vibrating through his chest and into mine. "Luna," he breathes my name like a prayer against my lips. "Mi preciosa."
His hand slides from my waist to my hip, then lower to my thigh, hitching my leg up around his waist. The position presses his hardness against my center, and even through layers of clothing, the contact sends sparks of pleasure through me.
"Saint," I gasp, my head falling back against the brick wall as he trails kisses down my throat, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. I'll have marks tomorrow, physical evidence of this moment, and the thought is strangely thrilling.
His hand moves higher, skimming under the hem of my shirt to touch bare skin. His palm is hot, slightly rough with calluses, and I arch into his touch like a cat seeking affection. When his fingers brush the underside of my breast, I whimper, a sound so needy I barely recognize it as my own.
“Shh,” he murmurs against my collarbone. "Let me make you feel good, preciosa."
I nod, unable to form coherent words, overwhelmed by these new sensations. I have no experience with boys. The kiss I shared with Saint outside the vet clinic was my first kiss—ever. Right now I feel like I might combust.
"Yes," I finally manage, the word barely audible over the distant sounds of the city. "Please."
His hand moves to cup my breast over my bra, his thumb brushing over the nipple until it pebbles beneath the fabric. The simple touch sends tingles straight to my core and I arch into his hand, silently begging for more.
"So responsive," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire.
All I can do is whimper, but he seems to understand my wordless plea, his other hand moving to the hem of my jeans. With deft fingers, he unbuttons them and slides the zipper down. His hand slips beneath the denim to cup me over my panties. I'm already embarrassingly wet, my body responding to him with an eagerness that would mortify me if I weren't so desperate for more of his touch.
"So wet,” he murmurs, his voice roughened with desire. "So perfect for me."
His fingers slide beneath the cotton of my underwear, and I gasp as he makes contact with my most intimate flesh. No one has ever touched me there before—I've barely even touched myself, too exhausted most nights to explore my own body, too busy surviving to consider pleasure.
"Oh!" The sound escapes me, half surprise, half delight, as his finger glides through my folds.
"You like that?" he asks, his eyes watching my expression intently.
"Yes," I admit, my cheeks burning with a mixture of embarrassment and desire. "It feels...good."
